


mo mhíle stór

by kmo



Category: Prime Suspect (UK), The Fall (TV)
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr ficlets for the ladies of The Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stella/Jane- subtle kindnesses

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the collection is Irish Gaelic and translates as "my thousand treasures," meant to be used as a term of endearment.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompt, "subtle kindnesses" with Stella Gibson/Jane Tennison.

“Package for you, madam,” the desk clerk calls out to Stella as she crosses the Merchant’s lobby.

“Thank you.” Stella’s stomach turns in fear that the paper-wrapped parcel could be a bomb—one never knew with Paul Spector and any other number of nutters on the loose. She sighs in relief when she recognizes her name printed in familiar slanting capitals.

Upstairs in her room, Stella unwraps the plain square box to reveal the treasures within: a box of homemade salted caramels; a package of her favorite ginger and orange biscuits; dried lavender from the garden; a soft pashmina the crème and pale gold color of Jane’s hair.

There is no note, of course. Neither of them would ever be so sentimental.

Stella kicks off her heels and hops on the bed, wrapping herself in the soft wool of the pashmina, wishing it were Jane’s arms about her instead. She reaches for her mobile, breaking one of her own cardinal rules.

When Jane picks up after the second ring, Stella says, “You sent me a care package. I feel like a schoolgirl away for her first term.”

“I thought you could use a little comfort,” Jane says, very delicately.

The sound of Jane’s warm, soft voice cracks something open inside of Stella. Suddenly she is very, very homesick.

“Stella? Are you all right?”

Stella sniffs away tears. “Of course.”

There is a pause on the other line. “You know I used to be a very good detective. And I can tell when someone is lying to me.”

Stella sighs back into the pillows and wraps the pashmina tighter. She swallows down the horrific knowledge that Paul Spector was in this room not two nights before, fights the urge to take the next plane back home, back to Jane. “No, I’m not all right.”

Jane exhales sharply. “But you’re not going to tell me about it either.”

“I can’t right now.” The investigation swirls around her like a hurricane; she needs to maintain her balance, calm as the eye of the storm. “You know how it is.”

“I do.”

“Jane?”

“Yes?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”


	2. Stella/Reed- whirlpool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stella and Reed have sex in a hot tub. Here there be porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for the always wonderful heartsfilthylesson. Also thanks to fanchonmoreau for the sleuthing--the Merchant *does* have a hot tub, and it's on the roof!

Reed sits in the Merchant’s hot tub, giddy and nervous to be sharing a soak with Stella. Stella arches her back and lets out a moan of deep sybaritic pleasure. The heat has gone to Reed’s head and the blood rushes straight to her pelvis and just when she thinks she can’t possibly get more turned on, Stella begins to strip off her swimming suit.

“Stella!” Reed exclaims in a harsh whisper, eyes nervously darting around the deserted pool area. It’s nighttime and they have it to themselves, but  _still_. “We might get caught.”

Stella tosses aside her dark one-piece and leans back against the jets. Her creamy breasts bob enticingly against the surface of the water. “We might,” she answers, as if that might be the point entirely. “Well, aren’t you going to join me? Don’t they go skinny dipping in Croydon?” she asks teasingly; Croydon has now become an affectionate joke.

Reed mumbles something about not having done this since university, but soon her suit joins Stella’s on the tiled ledge.

Stella glides over to her and presses her naked body against hers. “This is much better, isn’t it?” she purrs and begins to kiss her. Stella’s tongue glides past Reed’s lips and Reed welcomes her in with a moan, leaning forward to kiss Stella back. The bubbles in the water tingle, arousing her nipples and the sensitive flesh between her thighs. She snakes her hands thought the wet strands of Stella’s hair, pulling her closer. Stella holds fast, smirking, then quickly whips Reed’s body around, forcing her outward toward the edge of the tub.

Reed tenses, unsure of where this is going, and is about to ask Stella just exactly what she is playing at when she suddenly feels the pressure of the tub’s jets against her mons. “Oh!” she gasps, and Stella chuckles, guiding her closer to the hard, pulsing current of the jet. The stream teases her thighs and the outside of her lips, and it feels so good. Not as good as Stella’s tongue, but better than her favorite vibrator.

Stella massages her wet breasts and tenderly nips at the sensitive skin along her neck. Reed bears down until the jet is pounding directly onto her clit. Between the stimulation and the thrill of exhibitionism, she’s already so close. Her thighs begin to tremble as she hovers over the edge, almost weightless, before crashing down, Stella’s strong arms there to catch her. She comes and comes and comes, riding the water. It’s without a doubt the most powerful orgasm she’s ever had.

“Told you this would be fun,” Stella whispers to her after she’s finally done.

“Your turn now,” Reed says mischievously, guiding Stella toward the largest and most powerful jet in the tub.  


	3. The Interpretation of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stella tells Jane about Spector reading her dream diary.

Stella awakes in the morning light, gasping. Out of habit, her right hand reaches for her dream diary only to meet lacquered wood instead of familiar worn leather. The horror of her dream deepens into the ache of loss and the stinging slap of violation. She is ripped apart, a doll with its stuffing turned inside out. A hermit crab that’s lost her shell.

Impulsive, bewildered, Stella reaches for her mobile and does something she’s always sworn she would never do. Needs must when the devil drives.

“Stella?” Jane answers. The surprise in her voice is audible. Stella never calls when she is on a case; Jane doesn’t like it but she does understand it.

“Do you have a moment?” Stella curls her feet beneath her, girlish and small in a way she never is, in a way she hadn’t been for nearly thirty years.

“What happened?” Stella hears the edge of the Met in Jane’s voice, the ring of command she’d never quite lost.

“I...I had a bad dream.”

“A bad dream?” For a moment she thinks Jane will laugh at her, but instead she just says, “Did you write it down in your diary?”

“I don’t have my diary anymore,” Stella says, voice breaking. “It’s locked up in evidence.” And then she tells her about two nights ago, about the Belfast Strangler hiding in this very room, pawing through her underthings and reading her most private thoughts.

Jane exhales and Stella knows she is lighting up a cigarette. She feels guilty; Jane’s been trying to quit. “The PSNI…the Met…they don’t deserve you, Stella. They never deserved me, either.”

“And the victims—what do they deserve?” Stella pushes back. They’ve had this conversation before.

Jane takes another drag. “They deserve justice, of course. But you’re paying a higher price than most to give it to them. You know that, don’t you?”

Stella is silent.

“I can’t believe you’re still in that bloody room.” Jane doesn’t voice the rest— _He could have strangled you_.

“I’m under round the clock surveillance. The security weaknesses have been addressed.” She sounds like she’s delivering a report to one of her superiors.

“Most people would be more alarmed to have had a serial killer hiding in their wardrobe.” Stella can hear Jane thinking from hundreds of miles away. “But that’s not what bothers you.”

Stella holds her wrist firmly and longs for something to snap, for that bite of pain that was once like a caress to her. “It’s the diary, Jane. He read my diary. He  _wrote_  in it. And now it’s gone.” She can still see Spector’s heavy masculine printing on the creamy white pages. His handwriting was slapdash, almost childish, but he had pressed the biro hard, marking the paper--marking _her_. Thinking of it makes her nearly physically ill. “That vile shitstain of a man has read things I’ve never shared with anyone, not even you, and I love you, Jane.”

It goes unremarked upon by both of them that this is the first time Stella has ever said those particular words aloud. The circumstances don’t make them any less or more true.

“Do you want me to come to Belfast? I’ll be on the next plane.” Jane’s voice is full of warm authority, the kind Stella’s mother, weak and flighty, never had.

“You can’t.” It would be like asking to be fetched home after a week of summer camp. “It’s kind of you to offer,” Stella amends.

“Tell me your dream.” Jane is gentle, but she’s not asking.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Try.”

Stella turns on her side, rests her head against the pillow, a poor substitute for Jane’s shoulder. “I’m swimming in the sea…I’m so far from shore and my muscles begin to tire and ache. The saltwater pours in my nose and mouth and I can taste the brine. I’m afraid I’m going to drown. But then I hear my father’s voice…he’s come to save me, but he’s so very, very far away…”


	4. Fuck Croydon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reed flirts with Stella.

“One for the road?” Reed asks, and before Stella can decline she has dashed off to the bar.

Eastwood gives her a prim old-maidenly look before reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m off then. Safe travels. Need a lift, Ferrington?”

“Thanks.” Dani cocks an eyebrow; a gesture she seems to have picked up from her. “I’ll be back at 6am to take you to the airport, ma’am. It’s an early morning.”

“Yes, I know.” Stella silently curses Reed’s not-so-subtle ploy to get her alone. She’s got less than ten hours until she can put Belfast and the rotten Spector case behind her and still there will be gossip. “Thank you, Dani. Thank you both for coming. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Stella drums a tattoo with her fingernails on the varnished wood table, until Reed returns with a white wine for herself and a whisky for Stella. “Cheers,” Reed says, clinking glasses.

Stella takes a sip and nearly chokes on the single malt, so smoky it’s like she’s swallowed an entire peat bog. She likes her malts smoother, more perfumed, but Reed couldn’t have known that.

Reed hums a little and licks the wine from her lips provocatively. She reaches out to stroke the arm of Stella’s silk blouse. “I like that top on you,” Reed says, gaze dipping down to mentally caress the valley between Stella’s tits. “It matches your eyes.”

“My eyes, is it?” Stella asks, before risking another sip.

Reed covers Stella’s hand with her own and begins to gently entwine her long fingers with Stella’s short ones. “I’m flirting with you.”

Stella continues to let Reed paw at her, unsure if the glow in her belly has to do with Reed or the whisky. 

“I see that. But—“

“But what?”

Stella takes her hand back and exhales through her nose, causing little waves to ripple inside her whisky glass. “You’re from Croydon, remember?”

Reed leans forward and places her hand on Stella’s knee. “Fuck Croydon.”

The sound is music to Stella’s ears. She sets aside her drink and stands. “I believe you know the way to the elevator.”


	5. Stella/Jane post 301

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stella seeks comfort after the shooting.

The wood door swings open. “Stella,” Jane says, embracing her. “Thank God you’re here. I’m so happy you’ve come.”

Stella follows Jane through the winding passageways of her cottage, out onto the back patio. The flagstones are newly swept and she can smell honeysuckle and salt on the sea breeze. It’s a beautiful summer’s day.  

Stella takes a seat at the wrought iron patio table. Jane is unusually giddy as she whisks aside a frosted glass cover to reveal a richly frosted layer cake. “Happy birthday, Stella,” she says.

“Since when do you bake, Jane?” It was hard to imagine Jane, tough as nails Met detective hanging around the local WI swapping recipes for Victoria sponge. 

“I don’t,” Jane says. She cuts a thick slice; it’s plain yellow cake with chocolate frosting, Stella’s favorite. “It’s from a box.”

Stells cuts into the moist cake with the side of her fork and takes a bite; it’s sweet and rich and delicious. “My mother used to make this for me every year on my birthday. How did you know?”

Jane smiles mysteriously. “You told me, don’t you remember?”

Before Stella knows it she has devoured the entire slice, leaving nothing but crumbs.

“You’ve got a bit of frosting right here,” Jane says, leaning forward to brush the chocolate from Stella’s lips with her thumb. Stella captures Jane’s finger with her teeth and swirls her tongue around it, teasing the next course. She straddles Jane’s lap, hands running through Jane’s white-gold hair, grinding against her and—

A firm hand shakes her shoulder. Not Jane’s.

“Ma’am,” a voice calls.

Jane had hated being called ma’am; it was always “guv” or DCI Tennison.

“Superintendent Gibson,” the voice says in a harsh whisper. It’s the ICU nurse, scolding her again. “You can’t sleep here.”

Stella blinks and her eyes adjust themselves to the shadows, Jane’s sunlit cottage fading from view. She realizes she had been dreaming, must have fallen asleep the moment she finally sat down for the day. Stella looks at the older woman whose hand she had taken. _I’m so happy you’re here_. Her eyes prick with tears. “Is she going to be all right?” Stella asks the nurse.

“I can’t reveal that information to anyone other than family,” the nurse says. Her eyes shift toward the woman’s vitals, which even Stella can tell are sluggish. “Her daughter is on her way.”

Stella nods and shuffles her way out of the ICU, dazed and exhausted. She checks her phone; it’s nearly six-thirty. Barely enough time for her to return to the Merchant, take a forty-five minute nap, shower and dress before her nine o’clock meeting with the ombudsman’s office.

Her heart aches. She is bruised and raw and tired. She wishes she could climb back into her dream, feel the sunlight on her face and Jane’s strong arms around her, instead of the damp chill of Belfast. Impulsively, she hits the big green call button next to Jane’s number. 

“Stella?” Jane picks up after two rings, slightly out of breath. “Sorry, I just got back from my jog.”

“I’ve had the most terrible day, Jane. The most terrible week. There was a shooting…I had him Jane, our prime suspect, but he was shot today in police custody. I…I held my hand over his wounds, felt the blood seep between my fingers, as we waited for the ambulance.” Her voice and hands shake as she speaks. “It’s all gone to shit.”

“Thank God,” Jane breathes. “Thank God you’re safe, darling.”

Stella ends the call, unwilling to let Jane hear her sob.


	6. stella/dani post series 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "a hug in the dark"

They need someone to put the Operation Music Man incident room to bed and it feels natural to volunteer. Let the real coppers get some kip while you’re stuck on desk duty until the Police Ombudsman takes you out of the penalty box. If she ever does.

You pack up the evidence carefully into acid-free archival boxes and unpin the collage of images from the whiteboard. You call the tech folks at HQ to pick up the computers and the phone company to shut down the tip line. When it’s done, there’s nothing but disconnected wires spread across empty desks like the tentacle arms of an octopus. The bins overflow with Styrofoam coffee cups and tumbleweeds of paper dance across the floor. It’s a carcass that’s been picked clean. It’s a ghost town.

And then Stella leaves and everything just flatlines.

(When had she become _Stella_ in your mind and not _Gibson_?)

You could go home, come back, and finish the rest in the morning, but no. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and if you go home your demons will come out to play—pulling the trigger on Tyler, ending a life with half a second of muscle memory. So, you busy your lethal, blood-stained hands packing up office supplies and making sure no one’s left anything behind.

You go into the office that used to be Stella’s. Her cot is neatly folded away—it seems an age since she first asked you for it. In the corner of the darkened room something catches your eye, white and out of place. It’s a phone charger, most likely Stella’s. You pocket it, consider dropping her a text later to see what she wants you to do with it.

It’s hard to imagine the effortlessly meticulous DSI Gibson forgetting her charger, but she hasn’t exactly been herself lately. In the week since Spector offed himself in the hospital, you watched Stella retreat behind some kind of porcelain-skinned firewall, her normally cool manner turned Arctic. She hardly seemed like the same woman you met that first night in Belfast, the one with the swing in her step.

You’d been angry when you’d seen the bruises on Stella’s face, but to see her spirit broken this way makes you fucking furious. You’d hugged her, because she looked like she needed a hug, because you _wanted_ to, but she just stood there, still as a statue, your warmth unable to melt whatever she’d frozen herself into.

The metal clang of the elevator makes you jump out of your skin; no one’s supposed to be here but you.

A soft voice calls out from the shadows; “Dani?”

Stella steps forward, blonde hair shining in the dark.

“Forget something?” you say, dangling the charger from your hand like a piece of string. You drop it in her outstretched palm.

“I knew I could count on you,” she says, wistfulness flickering across her face.

The air hums again, taut and awkward, and you’re unsure of how to say goodbye a second time. The first time was hard enough. “Ma’am,” you say, trying to keep it professional.

Stella steps forward, hands unencumbered by bags this time, and pulls you in to a fierce and tight embrace. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a proper hug before,” she says, and there is something soft and broken in her voice, and so you pull her closer. You hold each other in the dark, close enough to breathe in the sweet smell of her—she smells lovely, like an English garden in May. Not how one would expect a DSI to smell at all.

You pull away slightly, but her hands still linger on your shoulders and your arms are loosely gathered around her waist. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but you think you see the slightest blush ghost across Stella’s pale face. And you’re not really sure who starts it, but suddenly her nose is brushing up against your nose, and your lips press against hers, and your mouth opens slightly and _oh._

Your heart pounds in your chest and the blush on Stella’s face is no longer a ghost, but a rose in full bloom. She’s so beautiful it makes your teeth ache.

Stella tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and you stand here, spellbound by her tenderness. “I need to go, Dani. My plane,” she tells you sincerely.

Her words break the spell. “Right. Of course. I understand.” An idea pops inside your brain, a longshot you never would have had the guts to make before she kissed you—like shooting a 3 pointer from mid-court to beat the buzzer. “I liked London. Didn’t get to see much of it when I was there, but I’d like to see more. Do you think, maybe you and I..if I was ever in town….”

Stella leans forward and silences you with kiss that is both sweet and firm. “You have my number,” she says, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, the first smile you’ve seen from her in weeks. “Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t,” you say, swallowing the _ma’am_ that would normally follow the end of that phrase.

She holds your gaze, gives you a slightly bemused nod, and walks away.

You sit out on your porch that night, drinking your favorite lager straight from its brown glass bottle. The air feels warmer, like spring is properly on its way at last. It’s a clear night and the moon is a sharp silver crescent—a huntress moon. A blinking light catches your eye—a star to wish on, maybe. Or Stella’s plane, heading back to London.

You close your eyes and wish.

“Godspeed, Stella.”


	7. stellani-fake relationship

Three lesbian couples murdered in Belfast over the past six months and the only thing they all had in common was the same wedding planner. At first you were shocked that Gibson had selected you for this sting. But when you thought more about it, it made sense–Gail was nursing a fractured ankle and god knows Martin and Eastwood would never have passed for a plausible couple. 

What was even more surprising was that Gibson had put herself forward as your partner. It nearly made you want to demand to be reassigned to traffic patrol. Because your gay heart won’t survive an investigation’s worth of Stella holding your hand, Stella tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and making you blush, Stella smiling at you as if you are the only woman in the world that matters. 

And when Stella possessively drapes an arm about your shoulders as you sit in the wedding planner’s office and casually kisses you hello, you think this is exactly what heaven must feel like. 

Christ, you’re going to end up in the morgue. 

You never want it to end. 


	8. Stella/Carmen Sandiego

“I’ve taken many beautiful works of art and priceless artifacts over the years, but they pale in comparison when it comes to you, dear Stella.” 

Carmen’s words sent an unexpected tingle through Stella, melting through her normally frosty composure. “I’m no one’s kept woman, no matter how beautiful the keeper.”

A dark eyebrow arched under the shade of Carmen’s fedora; for a brief moment it was like looking at her own twin. “I could say the same about you.” Carmen’s blue eyes tracked the high pitched screech of sirens, Stella’s backup finally arriving on the scene. “Until next crime, Stella.” And with a flick of her wrist and a tip of her hat, she was gone, slipping through Stella’s hands, gliding over the rooftops of London like Mary Poppins herself. 

Stella watched Carmen fly away, an unfamiliar feeling fluttering in her own chest. Joy, she realized, the first time she had ever felt pleasure watching a criminal escape. 


	9. Stella/Reed fix-it fic

“You’re certainly entitled to your opinion on the relationship, but it’s not going to change anything,” Stella says, words cutting through the air with the surgical precision of a scalpel, words  meant to wound. 

Reed wants to tell her that Tom Anderson’s no good for her, not clever enough to keep up with her mind, hands not gentle enough to touch her hair and skin. “It should have been me.” The words sputter out, water bailing from a sinking ship. 

“I would have liked it to have been you.” Stella’s hand hovers an inch from her face–she looks like she is about to caress her hair, but doesn’t. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

“I didn’t want you to know. And I wanted you. I  _still_ want you.”

Stella smolders back at her–a look so steamy it could make a nun’s knickers catch fire. And then Stella’s lips are on hers, coaxing out moans, teasing her open with her tongue–she keeps Reed’s mouth too busy to speak of Croydon or Tom Anderson again. 


End file.
